My ex-partner has always marched to the beat of his own drum. Whether it was pursuing an MBA or tackling home improvement projects, he operated on his own timeline, which could best be described as “sporadic.” There were moments of intense activity sparked by a random idea or a conversation, but generally, he was pretty chill.
I remember a weekend when he whisked a couple of the kids away to a college buddy’s cabin. It was a breath of fresh air for me, as I was left at home with just our youngest. Honestly, if I hadn’t been breastfeeding, I suspect he would have tried to take that one too.
So, let’s be clear: he wasn’t all bad. For a significant period, he was a decent guy.
When he returned from that weekend, he was practically buzzing with excitement about marriage and fatherhood, and life in general. This was a new look for him—usually, he had the energy of a tranquilized sloth. I found myself wondering if his friend had introduced him to some sort of cult or essential oils.
That night, as I was in our somewhat creepy basement preparing to clean the cat’s litter box, he surprised me. He took the scooper and bag from my hands, squatted down, and started cleaning.
While doing so, he said, “I learned so much from Steve this weekend.” Naturally, I was curious. “What did you learn?”
He went on to share how Steve talked about helping out at home with the kids, and it hit him how much I did. “I don’t appreciate you enough,” he admitted.
At the time, I could have blamed the smell of cat pee for the tears in my eyes. But honestly? It felt good to be recognized. Having someone else clean up kitty messes felt like an award ceremony.
He talked about “turning over a new leaf” and promised to step up his game as a dad and husband. We enjoyed that phase for a while, but like all good things, it eventually withered and fell apart.
For years, my kids have had a strained relationship with their dad. When he first left, before any legal advice was sought, he insisted the kids should live with me full-time. Initially, I thought it was due to the overwhelming responsibility of four little ones. But as time passed, I realized it was probably more about his fear of managing the kids alongside his new partner. Hindsight really does become your closest friend post-divorce.
At first, he played the role of the ideal divorced dad, picking the kids up every other weekend and on two weeknights. He even took them on vacation that first summer. I was meticulous about marking our shared calendar, labeling weekends with “K” for kids or “NK” for no kids. Funny how such tasks become second nature after a divorce.
After the split, he attended exactly two parent-teacher conferences. He did show up for concerts and games, albeit often hanging back in the shadows. It mattered to the kids that he was there, even if he wasn’t fully engaged.
Kids are perceptive—they can tell when someone is genuinely trying to be involved. And they definitely notice when that effort is lacking. Some will voice their feelings, asking, “Where’s Dad? Why wasn’t he at the game?” Others keep quiet, but trust me, their silence isn’t an indication of indifference. Just like squeezing into Spanx, their emotions will eventually ooze out one way or another.
It might manifest as tantrums or tears, or they could get lost in video games or books. Some become withdrawn, while others oscillate between seeking attention and pushing people away. The fallout from my divorce has been hard to watch, especially as I see my kids cope with a father who has drifted away.
I constantly worry. Despite the open conversations we have, I fear that their father’s casual presence and absence might teach them that families are disposable. I dread the thought of my sons growing up thinking it’s okay to treat women and families like yesterday’s trash, or that my daughter might struggle with daddy issues.
One of my quirky celebrity crushes, Andy Samberg, sings a hilarious song called “Cool Guys Don’t Look At Explosions,” which always makes me laugh. It humorously captures that tough-guy trope in films, and it reminds me of how my ex, and many others, have done just that. They sparked a fire, then walked away, leaving their families behind in the chaos. Mine left right in the thick of it.
Even when he did show up for his parenting time, I was the one left to handle the aftermath: the Monday mornings, summer chaos, puberty (ugh, times four!), the heart-to-hearts, and the frantic last-minute runs for supplies. It’s been a tough slog, but I managed. The finish line may not be close, but it’s finally in sight.
Now would be a perfect time for him to reenter the parenting scene, as the shrill chaos of childhood has mellowed into the more subdued tones of young adulthood. And that’s exactly what seems to be happening. Not with all the kids, but with one, a relationship is forming again.
I’m okay with it, even if it brings a tear to my eye. I’ve said it out loud: Better late than never. I’ll keep reminding my kids—and anyone who will listen—that being part of someone’s life, no matter where they are in their journey, is better than not being there at all.
Is it fair? Hardly. I can’t count the nights I collapsed into bed after a day of nurturing and managing our four kids without any help. It feels like being the Little Red Hen, working tirelessly to bake bread, only to have someone else swoop in to take a slice.
But you know what? It’s still better. Better than nothing. Better than never.